


Rematched

by Cori Lannam (corilannam)



Category: The Tudors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 02:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corilannam/pseuds/Cori%20Lannam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the wrestling match at the Val d'Or, Henry gets his rematch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rematched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).



His mind had not ceased its turmoil, nor his blood its rush and surge through his veins, long after his body had come to rest in the quiet solitude of his tent. He had challenged Francis to the wrestling match to settle the rage pounding in his chest, to settle once and for all the question of dominance between them here in the Val d’Or, their mutual creation.

Henry could not be seen as the lesser of this alliance. He would not sign this treaty from a position of weakness.

His fist clenched on the arm of his chair. He ached to slam it into Francis’s handsome, smirking French face.

Outside, the faint noises of the revelry pricked at his ears. Even the abject defeat of their king could not keep the English from their drunken carousing; of course it only encouraged the French. Henry himself could summon no appetites to overcome the burn of humiliation. Even his lust had deserted him; he had asked Charles to bring him the Boleyn girl, only to countermand himself in the next breath. He badly wanted to take something from the French king, but one English girl would hardly settle the bill.

A scuffling noise and sharp word from the guards outside his chamber made him tense and straighten in his chair. Even Charles would not dare disturb him for the rest of the night. No one would risk their heads to bestir him in this mood.

And yet the door opened. When the tall, hooded figured slipped through it, Henry’s lip curled in a snarl. “I wondered who would dare be such a fool, but here I find I could have answered my own question.”

Francis lifted his hands and pushed the hood back from his face, that little smile that drove Henry toward madness still playing around his lips. “I would be more of a fool to leave things so unhappy between us, my brother. Are we not here to celebrate our great amity?”

The soft words with their cloying veneer of civility only sent another surge of fury through Henry. It almost brought him to his feet; he clenched at the arms of the chair to keep himself seated. Standing would acknowledge Francis as his equal, even his superior. It would also emphasize the infuriating advantage of height Francis held over him.

“Amity? Is that what you call this display of gloating and strutting? I call it the pathetic puffery of a mad peacock?”

Francis only widened his smile until his teeth showed, the veneer of civility stretching thinner and thinner. “Truly, brother, I meant you no offense. I forget how great is the English pride, how sore it becomes when we prick at it with our little jests. Such repartee is only idle entertainment for all in our court.”

Henry glared, unmoving in body or pride. “In our English court, we consider pride a serious matter. I would not treat you so shabbily.”

“I know.” Francis bowed his head, to all appearances genuinely contrite. If Henry had not had long experience with the deception of Francis’s appearances, the ephemeral nature of his love, he might have believed it. “It is why I have come here before you to offer a salve to your justly wounded pride.”

“What salve?” Henry lifted his chin in scorn, despite the spark of curiosity the words produced.

“You asked for a rematch. Of course, it would have been unwise to continue our contest before our assembled courts, as the cooler heads of our wise advisors let us know.” The smile stretched out into pure animalistic delight. “But here, in privacy, we may grapple to our hearts’ content, until the true outcome of our contest is proven beyond any doubt and the love between us is restored.”

Slowly, Henry stood and walked slowly toward the other king, watching the heat grow in Francis’s eyes as Henry approached. Tension pulsed between them, in the same rhythm as the blood in his body, throbbing lower and harder. He hated this, what Francis did to him.

“Do you know what you’re asking for?” he said, low voice on a menacing breath.

“My dear Henry,” Francis replied in the same tone, letting his cape drop to the floor. “We have both known what we ask for many years now. Is that not so?”

“It is so,” Henry answered, and then lashed out to seize onto his opponent’s shoulders.

The next instant, Francis seized onto him in return, and they grappled without finesse until the sound of fine cloth tearing made Henry groan with the need to conquer. He finished tearing the tunic from Francis’s body, not noticing or caring that his own shirt hung in tatters.

“I will have you,” he growled against Francis’s neck, trying to twist him off balance, bear him down to the ground for the final victory. “I will have whatever I want.”

To his surprise, Francis’s knees buckled, taking them both down to the soft carpets. Francis gave a breathless laugh. “Perhaps you will, my dearest brother. Perhaps I want you to.”

Henry shoved Francis onto his back and climbed atop him, palming the bulge in Francis’s breeches. The bulge in his own throbbed and ached with the need to complete his conquest. “I’m going to fuck you. Is that the proof of my love that you so desired?”

Francis surged up against him and bit at his shoulder, provoking him one more time. “Gladly will I submit to you, mon cher, if it brings us closer to our much desired peace.”

Henry froze. A cold wave of anger swept away the heat in his veins, withering his lust. He climbed off Francis and shoved at the king beneath him with one booted foot. “Get out.”

Francis lay where Henry left him and looked up at him in confusion. “Henry?”

“I’ll sign the damned treaty. And let that be the last time I ever have to look at your face.”

Slowly, Francis got to his feet. He pulled his cloak back around him, leaving the shreds of his shirt on the floor. Henry closed his eyes and looked away as the cloak finally shrouded the temptation to resume their game, the game he was destined to lose even in satisfaction. There was nothing he could take from Francis that would ever mean anything.

“It will not be the last time, my dearest one,” Francis said softly. “That, I can promise you."

Then he was gone.

Henry stared at the door for a long while, letting the ice settle over his mind, before calling to the guard. “Summon Charles Brandon. He knows what I need.”

He barely heard the man’s assent before he was slumping in his chair once more, brooding over the cold hoard of the pride he retained.


End file.
